let the rain wash the blood away
by androidilenya
Summary: "[The sons of Feanor] came at unawares in the middle of winter, and fought with Dior in the Thousand Caves; and so befell the second slaying of Elf by Elf." Maglor, in the aftermath.


The halls were strangely silent, emptied of the cries and clash of weapons, the moans of the dying, the battle cries of the doomed that had filled it only hours earlier. Puddles of wind-blown water were forming beneath the shattered windows, cold winter rain pooling and running across the marble, turning red as it flowed about the dead. Maglor's boots slipped in cooling pools of blood as he strode forward, down the hall where Dior's throne had sat. There were bodies there, now, crumpled forms in bloody armor where once finely dressed lords would have stood to seek audience with the King of Doriath.

_There is no King here, not anymore_, he thought, and a savage, mirthless smile twisted his features. The sons of Fëanor had descended on this land with fire and blood, swords cutting down all who stood in their path - even their King, with his haughty eyes and golden armor, even he had fallen eventually. He must have, though Maglor had not seen it with his own eyes, else his soldiers would never have lost hope as they had.

And where were his brothers, where were the victorious butchers? For is this not what they have become - kinslayers, murderers, hated perhaps as violently as the one they came here to fight?

_We do what is right. We do what we have to do, because the Oath drives us, and our pride drives us, and the love we still feel for our father - even after so long - that also drives us._

A sound behind him, the shifting of steel against stone, made him spin, bringing his sword up. There were dark brown stains on the silvery steel, dried blood he had not yet had the time to clean off, and it reminded him too much of the first time this sword had been used for real, in the shade of the white ships so long ago, before the Sun, before the Moon.

_It's the wrong color. Red - not black -_

"Kano." The soft voice shocked him out of his rapidly spiraling thoughts - a familiar voice, roughened with exhaustion, but still his brother's. Celegorm was sitting, half-slumped against the wall, his sword beside him stained with someone's blood. Maglor let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"There you are." He let his sword fall back to his side as he crossed to where Celegorm sat, beside a crumpled body in a fine grey cloak. "I was looking - Maitimo said he saw you in this area during the battle."

"Ah." Celegorm let out a noise that might have been a laugh and might have been a sob. "I - I found him, Kano. That half-Elf bastard that refused us the Silmaril. I found him." He gestured weakly with one hand to the body beside him, and for the first time Maglor looked at it - the spill of black hair matted with blood, the fallen crown.

"Is that...?"

Celegorm nodded. "We fought. He fell. I was just... resting, 's all. But I beat him. I won, Kano." He offered up a smile, like he wanted Maglor to congratulate him, but all the older brother felt was rising dread. The scent of death filled the room, harsh and black, and there was blood bubbling up on his little brother's lips.

_This - no. This is wrong. It cannot be happening._

"Tyelko, you - you're hurt."

"I'm fine!" Celegorm's hand slid in the pool of blood - his or Dior's, it was impossible for Maglor to tell - as he struggled to rise. "Help me up, Kano."

"It's not - Tyelko, if you're hurt, you should stay still!" That much he knew about healing, though little else. He needed Maedhros, or Curufin - anyone that could keep Celegorm from bleeding out under his hands. "Where did he injure you?" He glanced at his brother's armor, but the dented steel was stained with too much blood, in varying shades of red and brown, that any from Celegorm was lost in the mess.

Celegorm's breath was coming faster, eyes darting wildly from Maglor's face to his hands and back again, but his voice was steady, with a light-hearted note that was so obviously forced. "He didn't get me too bad, Kano, it's fine-"

Maglor's fingers brushed his stomach and Celegorm sucked in a breath, a sound that was not quite a cry slipping from his lips.

"Don't-"

"You are injured," Maglor snapped, fear and worry making his voice sharp as he deftly reached behind his brother and unclasped his cloak, shoving it aside. "Dammit, Tyelko, why do you always pretend it's nothing?"

"I don't - want you to worry-" Celegorm smiled with an obvious effort, and a bubble of bright red popped at the corner of his mouth. He slid further down the wall, leaving a bloody streak on the stone, and Maglor's hands pressed against his brother's skin, feeling the rush of warmth between his fingers and knowing it was too late - but refusing to believe.

"Look at me." He grabbed his brother's face in both his hands and pulled Celegorm's face up, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Look at me! You are not dying on me, do you hear?" _We shouldn't have been here, I was a fool to support him in his pride, and now he's-_

"Don't cry, Kano," Celegorm said quietly, eyes unfocused. Maglor started to correct his brother, tell him he hadn't been weeping, but there was a splash of warmth on the back of his hand and his brother's face was blurring as tears warm as blood ran down his cheeks. He swiped them away, furious with himself and with Celegorm for getting hurt like this.

"I'm going to get you a healer, you just have to stay still," he insisted, still wanting to pretend it was all going to be okay - the sons of Fëanor had survived so much, it couldn't end here, like this, not under a strange roof beside the bodies of those they had killed even though they had never really been the enemy.

Celegorm's eyelids drifted shut and he forced them open again with a visible effort. "I'm fine, Kano," he whispered, voice trailing off into silence.

Maglor stayed by his side for a few, long seconds, then brushed Celegorm's face with the back of his hand, closing those blue-grey eyes - eyes that had always been flashing with life, filled with pride and vitality, unafraid of what the world had to offer. And now they were fixed, glazed with death, an unfamiliar blankness in them. They did not seem like his little brother's eyes.

Unbidden, tears rose again and he let them fall, splashing hot onto Celegorm's face. They mingled with the blood there, but the younger brother did not stir.

The sound of footsteps from behind him, accompanied by a soft voice: "Makalaurë?"

"You're too late." Maglor's voice was empty as he turned to his older brother, streaks of blood painting his cheeks under pained grey eyes. "He's - Tyelko-"

Maedhros' eyes flicked towards the bodies behind Maglor, and his expression did not change - there was not a trace of shock on his face, nor grief. Part of Maglor would have hated him for that, had he still been able to hate, had he been able to feel anything. But there was only a empty coldness, right now - and later, there would be pain, he knew, but for now, nothing.

"And now there are four of us," Maedhros said, almost musing. Maglor blinked, waiting for the words to sink in, wondering at the doom there.

"Four...?"

"Curvo and Moryo have fallen. They were doing battle elsewhere - they fought side by side." Still distant, disconnected. Maedhros' silver-flecked eyes were dry, his face pale but clean - somehow, he had found the time to wipe the blood from his skin, in the midst of this battle.

_No. They can't be. That's - that's not possible-_

"Fallen," he repeated, voice cracked and hoarse. "They fell - Curvo and Moryo both-" _And Tyelko. All of them._ He shook his head, disbelieving. "Eru," he whispered, and again: "Eru." A prayer, or a curse - or maybe the only words he could say, in the face of this impossibility.

"Eru can't hear you," Maedhros snapped, voice harsh. He had still been holding his sword in his hand, and he sheathed it now with a sudden snarl. "The Valar don't care. They-" Something flashed across the face of the eldest son that reminded Maglor for a moment of another elf, one that had spoken an oath and led his sons to doom. There was a fire there, fury and despair and pain - and no small amount of insanity. For just an instant, Maglor was afraid.

"Maitimo?"

The fire drained from Maedhros' face with a suddenness that surprised Maglor. He stood there for a few seconds longer, then shook his head and turned away.

"Come. We must find wood."

"Wood? What for?"

Maedhros glanced back at the body of his younger brother, and looked away. "To build a pyre. I will not leave my brothers' bodies for the wolves and ravens."

_No. They deserve better than that._ Maglor closed his eyes, saw the blood trickling from Celegorm's lips, staining his pale face, saw the crackle of flames they had lit already, and the ones they would light again. Once for death, and again for death. _But they deserved better than this, too._


End file.
